XVII
Hazel Winters
I struggle to get my eyes open, the right one downright refusing to open. My whole body hurts in different areas; the first alert that something is wrong. Using the only eye that will work, I look around the room to vaguely familiar surroundings.
I’ve been here before.
And then it clicks. This is the same fucking bedroom I was in when Theo brought me home. It takes me a few attempts to stand up from the oversized bed, my ribs screaming at me each time I move. As soon as I fully stand, my head spins with dizziness.
I stumble over to the bathroom, using the doorframe to help me in and turn the light on. Shock paralyses me when I see my reflection in the large, lit up mirror. My body is mottled with bruises, my hair a complete mess of tangled curls. A set of stitches on my face draws my attention and I lean in, only to bite my lip as a charge of pain surges from my ribs.
What the fuck?
I lift the large, black t-shirt over my head and gasp at the large red bruises covering the majority of my right side. The gasp makes me cough, which causes me to keel over at the agony shooting through me.
Pulling the shirt back down, I pause when I smell a man’s aftershave. Like the room, it’s vaguely familiar but I can’t pinpoint who it belongs to.
Staggering back into the bedroom, I search for the dress I wore to work, only to find it in a pile on the floor. It’s completely ruined, a large cut stemming right down the middle. I groan, instantly regretting it, and try to calm my panic.
I fail though and it reaches up to grab my throat, squeezing my trachea until my breaths come in short gasps. Flecks of light dance in my vision and I close my eyes, willing myself not to think the worst over my torn dress.
They’re not my father. They’re not my father. They’re not him.
Five things you can see…
Four things you can touch…
Once I’ve warded off the panic attack, I wipe the tears that I didn’t know I was shedding off my face. Setting my next goal to leave this house, I start to walk downstairs in delicate steps. Although, they’re anything but delicate as I hobble down the stairs in fits of pain.
I silence myself with pressed together lips until I reach for the front door. The action has me cursing aloud as I stretch my, most-likely, broken ribs.
“Ahh fuck, shit, son of a-”
“Morning, Spitfire,” Dawson chuckles. I turn around to see him standing against the archway to the kitchen, a coffee cup in hand as he watches me with an amused face.
“Oh, hello,” I feign innocence and quickly move my hand from the door, “What’s going on?”
“We’re having breakfast,” he walks over to me and picks me up in his arms, somehow avoiding hurting me, “Come on.”
“Like I have a choice,” I mutter as he strolls into the kitchen with a massive grin on his face. “Put me down,” I demand as soon as I see the others in there. He chuckles again but sets me down on one of the barstools. I wince as I try to find a comfortable position to sit in.
Atlas and Theo are staring at me intensely and I turn to glare at them.
“Ignore them, Angel. They’ve been testing how many bitchy pills they can take before they overdose,” Andros smiles at me as he places a coffee in front of me. I take it and sip it slowly, eyeing everyone around me as he sits on the seat next to me.
Dawson smiles at me as he flips a pancake onto a plate, but I’m too busy surveying the situation to talk to anyone. Atlas keeps his eyes pinned on my torso and I glower at him.
“What happened last night?” I finally gain the courage to ask.
“Eat first,” Dawson pushes a plate of pancakes in front of me. He’s coated them in maple syrup, even adding some blueberries and bacon to the top. My stomach gurgles in delight but my anxiety refuses to budge from finding answers.
I play around with my food, feeling too nauseous to eat, despite Dawson’s mouth-watering cooking. Them all staring at me whilst I play with the food only makes me more anxious.
“Not hungry?” Andros asks, frowning slightly as he nods at my plate. I push it away and give Dawson an apologetic smile.
“What’s going on?” I ask again, hoping someone will actually answer this time instead of diverting the subject.
“You were attacked,” Atlas answers in his usual nonchalant manner. He takes a sip of his coffee with a blank expression, like he told me it fucking rained last night or something.
I close my eyes, my breathing painfully quickening as flashes of last night come back to me. My usual repressive trauma techniques fail, and I’m bombarded with the images of being cornered by three masked guys.
I’d tried to fight back but was outnumbered, relinquished to the floor as they landed blow after blow on my body.
A tear falls through my lashes, and someone tries to wipe it away, but I flinch instinctively.
“Yeah, she does that,” Theo murmurs to whoever it was.
I open my unswollen eye and force the psychological pain and memories of last night back into its tiny box in my mind.
“We brought you back here and had the doctor patch you up. He gave you another blood transfusion for the blood you lost from the cut on your forehead,” Andros continues.
“And we’re not letting you leave this time,” Dawson adds nonchalantly.
His words drown me in a paralysing fear as they settle into my brain.
He’s not letting me leave.
My Dad didn’t let me leave.
“What do you mean you’re not letting me leave?” I ask, my vulnerability showing in my voice. I focus on Dawson and Andros, the kinder two of the four.
“There’s a lot we need to let you know about, but for now, all you need to know is that you’re safe with us,” Andros smiles sympathetically at me.
My mind is too bewildered to process the underlying meaning to his statement. Hesitating slightly, I slide off the stool and hobble out of the room, back up to the bedroom I’d woken up with. Silence resounds the room as they watch me go, giving me room to process my new reality.
Trapped, again.